


every breath, every hour

by tardigradeschool



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Guilt, Post-Series, Pregnancy, Sharing a Bed, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 08:25:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9596246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tardigradeschool/pseuds/tardigradeschool
Summary: d'Artagnan dies. Somehow, life goes on.(Or, the eight-month interlude between a death and a birth.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> title from A Thousand Years because d'Artagnan and Constance are #dramatic like that.
> 
> i adopted a couple of philthestone's headcanons. go check phil out

“I’m sorry,” is the first thing d'Artagnan says to her when he sees her, though he is gasping for air, though he is gripping Porthos’s wrist so tightly that were it any other man’s it might be broken. 

“One of the bullets passed straight through his stomach,” Aramis says, without prompting, without looking up from his task. The light catches on the blood on his fingers, d’Artagnan’s blood. “The other remains in his side.” d’Artagnan tries to sit up, to reach for her; Athos pushes his shoulders forcefully back onto the table.

“Stay still,” he growls. There is fear in his voice. 

“I’m sorry,” d’Artagnan says again, desperation clear on his face, no doubt mirrored on her own. He hasn’t looked away from her. “Constance-”

Constance returns to herself. “What do you need?” she asks Aramis. 

“I think I can find the other bullet,” Aramis says distractedly. “Tweezers, I need-” He gestures across the room and Constance dashes to his bag. She finds the tweezers quickly, ignores the shaking in her hands. In her years at the garrison, she has seen much worse than this, she tells herself. Of course, this is her husband, this is  _ d'Artagnan _ , and she needs to tell him-

Not now. She hands Aramis the tweezers; he nods at her, still focused. 

“Bandages,” he says, “Now.” 

 

He has removed the bullet by the time she returns, two cadets bobbing behind her. d’Artagnan has passed out. The cadets - Beauchamp and Audet, neither older than seventeen - are looking wide eyed at d’Artagnan’s prone form, the bandages dangling from Audet’s hand. Constance snatches them and hands them over to Aramis. 

Bandaging d’Artagnan takes some time. She’s shooing the cadets out after; she doubts Aramis means for her to overhear. “He’s bleeding too much,” he says to Porthos, voice low. “Even if the bullets missed everything important, I’m not sure…” His voice becomes lower, inaudible. Constance turns around. 

“Not sure what?” She can feel herself paling, but she’s certain that if it weren’t for that, no one would be able to tell her terror; her voice is almost perfectly even. 

Aramis looks at her. Athos keeps his eyes on d’Artagnan, one hand keeping pressure on the wound. Porthos looks away. d’Artagnan’s grip on his wrist has loosened and his fingers curl gently in the air. If she looks at him carefully, she can see him breathing, but it would be an easy mistake. 

“I’m sorry, Constance,” Aramis says, spreading his hands, helplessly,  _ uselessly _ , and it is that, seeing the pity in his eyes that makes her snap. 

“Don’t be sorry,” she says roughly. She wants, desperately, to break something, wants with a terrifying ferocity to hurt whoever did this. Aramis steps forward and she fights the urge to hit him. Instead, she takes as deep a breath as she can manage. “Don’t be sorry, just make him  _ better _ .” There are tears welling in her eyes and she hates herself for it; she promised herself long ago that she would not be a weeping soldier’s wife. But of course, d’Artagnan had promised not to give her cause to weep. 

“Oh, Constance,” Aramis says, more gently than before. She really does intend to hit him, until she glances up and sees the dampness in his own eyes. “I wish I could.” 

She steps forward and puts her arms around him. Strangely, it is the hitch in his breathing that makes her own steady slightly. There is a creak of leather as Porthos stands, steps forward, and folds his arms around both of them. 

A moment later Athos rises too. It should be stifling wrapped in their arms, but Constance takes what feels like her first deep breath in hours, face buried in Aramis’s shoulder. 

“My god,” d’Artagnan says, voice scratchy. “I lose consciousness for a couple minutes and you three start making moves on my wife. I should have known.” 

Constance laughs as they let go of her, though it is a little wet. “I’d like to see them try.” 

“That was more than a couple minutes, my friend,” Athos says, laying a hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “You fainted for at least an hour.”

d’Artagnan clears his throat, but the croak remains in his voice. “Please don’t call it fainting,” he says. 

“Manly swooning,” Porthos offers. He clasps d’Artagnan’s hand in his own. d’Artagnan offers him a weak grin, wincing as his arm falls back. 

Aramis pats d’Artagnan’s cheek. “A heroic nap,” he says. d’Artagnan pretends to squirm away and immediately groans, screwing up his face. Any relief drops off of Aramis’s face in an instant when he glances toward d’Artagnan’s wounds; Porthos and Athos move at once to help. 

Constance steps forward and sees the problem at once: the bandages have done little to stay the flow of blood. Her throat does something funny when she sees just how much blood d’Artagnan has lost. d’Artagnan is breathing quickly through his nose, head tilted back, clearly trying to manage the pain. Constance pulls up a chair beside the table, cups her hand around his cheek, meets his eyes when he looks at her, waiting until he concentrates on her entirely. 

“d’Artagnan,” she says. “I’m pregnant.”

His reaction is almost instantaneous; his mouth falls open, his eyebrows lift almost comically, and he reaches immediately for her other hand, clasping it to his heart. “Constance,” he whispers. “ _ Constance _ .” He presses a kiss to her fingers, her palm. There are tears in his eyes. 

Aramis clears his throat. “Perhaps I’d better go fetch more bandages.”

“I’ll join you,” Porthos says, following him to the door. Out of the corner of her eye Constance can see Athos redirect his gaze out the window, holding pressure on both of d’Artagnan’s wounds. 

d’Artagnan never looks away from her face, eyes searching hers as though she is the only being in the universe.. She wants to preserve the wonder on his face, wants so desperately to be delivering this news in another setting. 

“I’m pregnant,” she repeats, “So you are not allowed to die.”

His hand tightens on top of hers. There is fear on his face where there was not before; he is afraid to let her down. “Constance,” he says again, this time even more softly, pleading. 

“Don’t,” she says, shaking her head emphatically. “I want my child to grow up with a father.” d’Artagnan swallows. Constance continues, even as her voice breaks. “You must be there, to teach him how to be kind. How to defend himself.”

“She won’t need to learn that from me,” d’Artagnan says. A tear makes its way down the side of his face, a second caught by his nose. “She will have her brave and beautiful mother as an example.” He blinks, and it takes him a moment to refocus on her. “One thing,” he says. “Please don’t name the baby after me. You know how I dislike my name.”

Constance smiles despite herself. “You’ll have to stop me yourself,  _ Charles _ ,” she says, and he makes a face at her, wrinkling his nose. It turns into a wince of pain halfway through.  “I don’t know if I’m brave enough to lose you,” she admits, any humor gone. She bows her head to wipe away the tears waiting in her eyes; d’Artagnan pulls her closer, kisses her on the forehead. A familiar gesture. 

“You are brave enough for anything,” he says. He pauses to take a breath, then repeats himself: “You are brave enough for anything.” He breathes twice more: in, out, in, out, and then he stops entirely. 

 

Constance stops breathing too, but only for a moment. There is silence in the room, save for a fly buzzing to get out into the late afternoon summer sunlight. In the world narrowing to d’Artagnan, she had forgotten that Athos was still there; she looks straight ahead rather than at him. She sits very still. 

After several moments, Athos reaches past her and closes d’Artagnan’s eyes. Still Constance does not move. 

Slowly, as though she is an animal he is trying not to spook, Athos stands, steps toward her, then kneels beside her chair. “It is not the same,” he says gravely, “but I know a little bit how it feels.”

Constance turns towards him. “How,” she says. “How are you supposed to-” She cannot finish. 

“If I knew,” Athos says, as though he is responding to an articulated question. “I would tell you.” 

 

She is still sitting in her chair when Anne arrives, though she has no idea of how much time has passed. They have taken d’Artagnan’s body away, but his blood remains on the table and pieces of his armor are strewn about the floor. Constance knows, distantly, that if she leaves they will come and tidy everything, remove all the remnants of her husband from the room, and so she stays, trying to remember how to breathe.

“I came as soon as I heard,” Anne says. She is out of breath, but she approaches Constance slowly, lays a hand lightly on her arm. Constance leans into the touch without thinking and Anne responds by leaning down, wrapping herself tightly around Constance. She kisses Constance’s forehead - the same place d’Artagnan had, seemingly only moments ago - and suddenly Constance has to fight back a sob. 

“Shh,” Anne says tenderly. “Shh, sweetheart.” Constance has seen her speak this way to the dauphin when he is upset, seen her run her hands through his hair as she is doing to Constance now. “Let it out. It’s going to be alright.” 

Unable to speak, Constance shakes her head against Anne’s chest. “I’m pregnant,” she whispers, and Anne’s hand stills momentarily in her hair. When Anne lets go of her, Constance feels a fresh wave of grief, but Anne doesn’t move away entirely, just crouches so that they are almost level. 

“Constance,” she says. Usually this level of seriousness is reserved for matters of state. “I will support you, no matter what you choose.” Her eyes search Constance’s. “If you do not wish to raise a child alone, I would not blame you.” There is only sincerity in her face, and Constance adores her for that, loves her so fiercely that for a moment all she can do is hold onto Anne and try to breathe. 

“Thank you,” she says. “But I am going to raise this child. Myself if I must.” She does mean it, but it must show on her face that she’s close to breaking, because Anne gathers her up again without hesitation. 

 

Constance moves into the Louvre. Technically, she has her own room in the lady-in-waiting quarters, but Anne barely lets her out of her sight for weeks and, when Constance confesses to being unable to sleep, she begins spending her nights in the queen’s quarters as well as her days. She protests a little, but although Anne has blanket-stealing tendencies, the bed is large and spending the night sleeping beside a friend is vastly preferable to facing an empty bed.

(Constance reminds herself frequently how idiotic this is; she went months sleeping alone when d’Artagnan was at war, but somehow this does not change the fact that the prospect of climbing into bed alone is without fail followed by a ripple a grief so intense she finds herself suffocating.)

Five out of seven mornings that first week, Constance finds herself stumbling out of bed to throw up. Anne, darling Anne, rubs her back as she hunches over the chamber pot, murmuring reassurances about how the nausea will not last the entire pregnancy. In truth, Constance suspects her unborn baby is only partly to blame; her nightly dreams of d’Artagnan, bloody on the table, could just as easily be the cause. 

 

It is a beautiful funeral, but Constance finds herself distracted the entire time. It feels as though she is doing a favor for someone else, some other poor mother-to-be that will raise a fatherless child. She has seen so many tragedies in her life; who was she to believe she would escape?

Porthos walks her back through the city afterward. They walk slowly, side by side. He had cried during the ceremony; she hadn’t. “We were going to visit his farm in Gascony once the war was over,” she tells him absently. “I wonder if he’d have liked to have been buried there instead.”

“Paris was his home,” Porthos says. “Everything he loved is here.”

“You’re right.” Constance glances around the busy streets, catalogues all of the lives passing by, wonders which will end in violence. 

They reach the palace in silence. She finds it difficult to look at Porthos; he is too strongly tied to d’Artagnan for her to fully separate her affection for him from her misery. She is certain he feels similarly about her. Still, she kisses his cheek before he leaves and he squeezes her arm lightly. 

“Thank you for accompanying me,” she says, and he says, gruffly, “Of course.”

 

It occurs to her at some point that she is a widow twice over. Bonacieux and d’Artagnan, both dead, not even a decade separating their deaths. Tactfully, carefully, Anne points out that this does not mean that Constance can never marry again. It is the first time Constance has felt anything but grateful for her presence these last months. 

“I’m not going to sit around feeling sorry for myself,” Constance says, though arguably this is what she has been doing. “But I’m not going to step over my husband’s corpse into the arms of another.”

“I wasn’t suggesting-”

Constance knows that wasn’t what she was suggesting. “I’m sorry,” she says. 

“No, I am,” Anne says at once. 

Possibly this is a touchy subject because, as Anne knows, Bonacieux’s death felt more like a convenience than anything else. She had felt bad for him, of course, but she had also been free of a man she did not love. This is, she is reminded as she touches the new, slight swell of her stomach, different.

 

It isn’t until she accidentally overhears Aramis berating Athos that it fully sinks that she has not been the only victim these past few months. She doesn’t exactly mean to eavesdrop, but she is finally retrieving some belongings from the garrison when she hears Aramis’s voice and ends up going up the stairs to Athos’s office.  

“You need to take better care of yourself,” he growls. “Athos, for Christ’s sake. You think this is what he would have wanted?”

Before Constance can move, Aramis stumbles out of Athos’s door, which slams behind him. She hasn’t seen him since the funeral, over a month ago now, and he seems as surprised to see her as she is him. 

“Madame,” he says.

“Aramis,” she returns. “What’s happening?”

Aramis sighs. “Our Athos, it seems, has taken it upon himself to believe that the death of your husband was his fault. Apparently he means to drink himself into oblivion.” He glances at her almost cautiously, unsure what her reaction will be. 

“Well, that’s just stupid,” she says bluntly. “No one could have stopped my husband throwing himself into danger, not even me.” 

Aramis relaxes minimally. “I suggest you tell him that.”

“I will,” she says, and her commanding tone surprises her a little. “Thank you, Aramis.” 

He smiles at her. “Give the queen my best,” he says, teasing, as though he doesn't see her every day, and she rolls her eyes at him. 

Athos’s expression doesn’t change when he sees her, but he does set his bottle down on his desk and lean back in his chair. He seems to be waiting for her to say something. When she doesn’t, he sighs. “Are you going to tell me this isn’t what he would have wanted too?”

“No,” Constance says. She sits down in the chair across from him. “I’m going to tell you that if I don’t get to get drunk, you don’t either.”

He glances at her. She’s begun wearing looser clothes. Anne had offered the gowns she had worn while pregnant with the dauphin, but even those are too grand for her, so Constance has been loosening the seams on some old clothing. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” she says.

“I’m the captain,” he says. “Every time a musketeer dies, it’s my fault.” 

“Now you’re just being ridiculous.”

“And every time a friend throws himself in front of me to keep me from getting shot, that’s my fault as well.” He won’t look her in the eyes now. 

Constance begins to get up. “Athos-” She is overtaken by an incredibly strange sensation low in her stomach and freezes, halfway out of the chair. 

Athos is on his feet and at her side in an instant. “What’s wrong? Are you alright?  _ Constance _ ?” There is panic in his voice and his hands flutter over her, wanting to help but unsure how. 

“I’m fine,” she says, fitting a hand around her stomach, but when she tilts her head up to look at him, Athos doesn’t look like he believes her. “I think the baby’s kicking. Here.” She grabs his hand and puts it next to hers on her belly. 

The naked relief on Athos’s face makes her want to laugh. “I’m fine,” she says again, and though it is far from the first time she’s said it in the last four months, it’s the first time it feels even a little true. 

“You scared me,” he says, leaning back to sit on his desk. 

“Everyone in this garrison is scared of me for one reason or another,” she says. 

“Mostly because you yell at them more than I do,” Athos says. He watches her for a moment. “Are you going to move back?”

Constance sighs. “Probably not. I thought about it, but this is not a place to raise a child. Too many guns, too many swords. You understand that. And it seems around every corner there’s another reminder of him. Though without me I’m sure the cadets’ training will go to the dogs.”

“You wound me, madame.” 

“Yes, well, being drunk in the midmorning is not setting a great example, now is it?”

Athos runs a hand through his hair. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Go home,” she says. “I’ll supervise training for the rest of the day.”

“Are you sure that’s wise?”

“No,” Constance admits. “But in five months I’ll have a baby to look after and I don’t think demonstrating a correct sword grip is going to hurt anyone.”

“You know,” Anne says one evening, “you will always have a home here if you want it.” Constance is almost five months pregnant and d’Artagnan has been dead for four. Summer has turned into late fall. The benefit of being the queen’s closest friend is the fire you get to lounge beside as the weather grows colder.

“I know,” Constance says, shifting to a more comfortable position. “I hope you don’t mind that I intend to take you up on that until the baby is born.”

“Only until then?”

“I need a home of my own,” Constance says. “I cannot return to the garrison with a baby to care for and I cannot remain a guest here.”

“I’d offer you new rooms,” Anne says, “if I didn’t know that that wasn’t the problem.”

Constance smiles at her. “I can’t thank you enough.” 

“Of course,” Anne says, narrowing her eyes affectionately. “Your new quarters will be near to the palace, will they not?”

“If my queen commands it,” Constance says mildly, and Anne laughs. 

 

She wakes up in the middle of the night in early December, and for a moment nothing is wrong. She had been dreaming about him - not the dreams that wake her up shaking, thinking of d’Artagnan’s unfocused eyes - but a simple dream. The details are fading, but it had been something funny, and in the few seconds after waking up, she means to tell him. Constance is warm and sleepy and she reaches a hand toward him - he is going to laugh when he hears -

“Constance?” Anne murmurs. “Is there something wrong?”

Constance blinks, takes a sharp breath in. “Sorry,” she says softly. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” Anne, barely awake, nods at her drowsily and turns over onto her side. Constance waits for her to settle, then slips out of the bed. The floor is cold under her feet and her loose nightgown is not enough to protect against the chill of the stone walls. She moves across the room, scarcely aware of her own intentions. 

After glancing back at Anne, who has fallen easily back into sleep, Constance opens the window and lets the bitter night air wash over her. She does not shiver, just closes her eyes, exhales into the wind. 

It had seemed, if only in passing, so real. d’Artagnan had always been hot, his hands always warm when hers froze and she remembers when he had come back from fighting, the way he curled himself around her as if to engulf her. 

“Constance?” Anne is sitting up in bed, looking concerned. “What are you doing? It’s freezing outside.”

Constance shuts the window. “Sorry,” she says. She crosses the room again, lies down on top of the covers, facing away from Anne. She feels numb through. “I was dreaming about him, that’s all.” She turns to offer Anne the most convincing smile she can summon, though Anne looks if anything more worried by it than less. 

“Constance,” she says, placing a hand on her back. “You can talk to me.”

“I have no idea what I’m supposed to do,” Constance admits. “What to do with the baby when it’s born.”

“You’re wonderful with children, I’ve seen you-”

“That isn’t what I mean,” Constance says, caught between frustrated and wanting to cry. “I thought he was going to be here for all of this. That we would raise our child - children - together. Not alone.” 

Anne reaches out, moves closer. She kisses Constance’s forehead, her cheeks. “I am not your husband,” she says. “I cannot be your child’s father. But I promise you, Constance, you will _ not _ be alone.”

 

It is a new year, and Constance seems to grow wider every day. She happens to walk by the garrison on her way to buy food and decides to stop in; the moment she enters, every man, currently engaged in a swordfight or not, turns to look. 

“Goodness,” she says, toeing the line between annoyed and amused. “If only I had garnered so much attention prior to pregnancy.”

Athos, clearly curious about the sudden lack of noise, emerges onto the balcony. “Ah, Madame d’Artagnan,” he says, “Do come in. The rest of you, back to your duties.”

No one moves. 

“You heard him,” Constance says, making her way to the stairs, “Back to your duties.”

Behind her, the sounds of fighting and talking slowly resume. She can’t quite restrain herself from a smug smile as she reaches Athos. “Perhaps they should have considered me for your position,” she teases, and Athos sighs.

“Perhaps,” he agrees, less jocularly. “You’re determined not to return here?”

“Yes, I’m moving into the Red Guard’s garrison instead. Much nicer.” She lets herself into his office, leaving the door open behind her.

“I have missed you, Constance.” He walks past her to his desk. “Any occasion for dropping by?”

“Not really.” It had been a whim, but she is glad to see him. “Are the others around?”

He shakes his head. “Off on a mission for a couple days. Though it’s more of a vacation, really.”

“The musketeers do vacations now? This place has changed.” The joke falls a little flat; Athos glances away, down at his paperwork. “Sorry.”

Athos waves it off. “You know, Sylvie will murder me if I don’t bring you around for dinner soon. I don’t suppose we could steal you away from the queen for just one night?”

She spends more time with them after that, not just Athos and Sylvie but Porthos and Aramis too. They are still adjusting within their group, she can tell, and every so often there will be a silence not filled by words, where they - or at least Constance - have to remind themselves that one of their number is no longer there. 

Still, Constance finds herself spending several evenings a week at the garrison; one night, some cadets found cheap instruments and are banging out a tune. Porthos and Athos's daughters chase each other around the courtyard, shrieking and giggling. Aramis laughs and twirls Constance like she isn’t eight months pregnant with aching feet, and Constance finds herself laughing too, as he makes a big deal out of not crowding her stomach. 

“I feel quite robbed,” Anne says as they dress for bed, Constance searching her belongings for something that will fit easily over her belly. 

“Oh please,” Constance says, “You sleep in the same bed as me.”

“Your charming presence is more easily appreciated when you are awake and not snoring,” Anne says delicately, pulling a slip over her head. “Besides, I am soon to lose you, am I not? The baby should arrive within the month.”

“You’ll never lose me, not really,” Constance says. “And I don’t snore.” 

 

She is walking with Porthos through the city when the contractions start. She does not recognize what it is for a moment, a sudden cramping in her lower stomach, but when she stops walking, Porthos is immediately wary. “Constance?”

“Sorry,” she manages. “I just felt strange for a moment.”

He scrutinizes her. “I might be more inclined to believe you if you weren't rounder than a melon.”

Constance glares at him. “There’s no call to be rude-” The cramping happens again; Constance tightens a hand on her belly. 

“Well, that’s that,” Porthos says, “Back to the palace then.” He moves as if to pick her up and she steps indignantly away.

“I can walk!” She starts back in the direction of the Louvre.

“Sure,” Porthos says, “Just don’t blame me when little Constance falls out in the middle of a Paris street.”

“Yes, well,” Constance says, dismissively, but she does start walking a little faster. 

“I know this seems bad,” Anne says in her ear, seemingly an eternity later, “but just remember I was in labor with Louis for nearly ten hours, and you’re almost there after three.”

“Not helping,” Constance groans. She cannot take another seven minutes of this, let alone seven hours. 

“Almost there,” Anne says, a little more helpfully. “I have seen you endure much worse things than this. If you are brave enough for them - ”

_ I am brave enough for anything,  _ Constance thinks. For a blinding moment she is suddenly, viciously furious at d’Artagnan for missing this, for not being here -

“Yes,” Anne says, “That’s good, push - ”

 

“I’m naming him Charles,” she tells them. “After d’Artagnan.” 

Aramis blinks. “d’Artagnan hated his first name.”

“I know,” Constance says. “This is his punishment: a legacy of Charles’s that will last as long as France. Besides, I think it’s nice.” 

Porthos laughs quietly. Aramis smiles. The end of Athos’s mustache twitches. Constance looks down at her son, who, after hours of crying, has finally fallen asleep. She does not weep - there has been too much weeping lately - but it’s a near thing. 


End file.
